


Pub Fights with Priests

by daynight



Category: In the Loop (2009), The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Backstory, First Meetings, Gen, M/M, Past, semi-canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-18
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-16 05:06:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1333069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daynight/pseuds/daynight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jamie has trouble obeying the rules at the seminary and very wayward emotions. Either he loves or he hates, or sometimes even both. Malcolm is a very left leaning journalist who likes drinking, being left alone and happens to get caught up in his turbulence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Caught up healing the blind

**Author's Note:**

> I actually know nothing about either Glasgow, seminaries or even socialist groups so this is doubtless riddled with inaccuracies. Nevertheless, enjoy!

“Woah, woah, look at the tits on her!” Michael nudged Jamie eagerly, pointing out a rather well endowed young lady walking down the street. They were meant to have been handing out pamphlets for the Sunday service, but the small group of young trainee priests had quickly abandoned that pursuit for the far more amusing sport of perving on girls from a considerable distance, a bench on the side of the road. To be honest, it had been Jamie’s idea. It was a very rare pleasant evening in Glasgow, which meant that the ladies had abandoned their anoraks and boots for short dresses and heels, much to the delight of the seminary lads.

Jamie nodded, puffed on his cigarette and exhaled with barely concealed joy. Smoking was another indulgence frowned on by the priesthood along with, he glanced down at the tin in his hand, alcohol. Women were, of course, out of the question. This served to make them even more entrancing. Stephen, a spotty lanky kid who lent money to Jamie for his baccy in exchange for friendship, started wildly motioning to the street. He had spotted, he informed the group, a proper, proper stunner. Jamie, who was the undeniable ruler of this little papal gang, was suspicious as to the claimed attractiveness of this girl at first because Stephen was so fucking desperate he’d probably shag a post box. He leaned forward, squinting his blue eyes and had a look. She was fucking beautiful. Great legs, good tits, nice long hair. He decided that he was in love. He threw down his cigarette and downed the end of his beer, crushing it and chucking it aside with resolve. 

“Alright boys…see you later” He stood up and began to remove his collar. Women didn’t like them. Jamie’s peers looked confused and began to weakly protest. 

“What’re you doing Jamie?

“We’ve got to go back soon, the Father will kill us”

“Jamie you’re already in trouble”

He was already in trouble, for ‘accidentally’ setting off a firework in the green last Tuesday. Jamie figured if he was already in the shit, what did a little more matter? He handed his collar to Stephen and began to march forward, in pursuit of that perfect girl, leaving the whinging protestations of his little gang of followers behind. 

“Tell them I got caught up healing the blind.” He shouted behind him, quickening his pace. 

“They’ll never believe that Jamie!” He heard on the wind. They probably wouldn’t, no. 

Jamie followed the girl to a scruffy little pub, the kind he enjoyed to play pool in before signing up for the priesthood. He glanced at the sign near the door. ‘Socialist Night’. What a load of bollocks. The girl must be into all that shit though, as she eagerly took a flyer from the doorman (Jamie merely grunted at him when offered one) and hurried to a space near the back where there were seats arranged and some fucking tosser was giving a speech. He saw her turn to her friend, who she rushed next to, and ask ‘Did I miss it?’ Her friend smiled reassuringly, telling her that ‘he’ hadn’t come on yet. Who was he? Who was this bastard that all the girls were here to see? 

Jamie was quite pissed off that his girl’s attention was already elsewhere before he’d even tried to put the moves on. He ordered three pints at the bar and drank them quickly in succession. He was an expert drinker but often found himself in fights and brawls at the pub due to this fact (and in a LOT of trouble with the priests, but that’s another story). That was okay though, as he was also an expert brawler. He smiled beatifically at the memory of his last big pub fight, where he had ended up with a black eye and split lip but managed to smash a chair over his assailants back. Brilliant. That had earned him 2 weeks scrubbing toilets at the seminary, even after he had explained that they were heathens. He decided he might as well wait this shit out and try and get in there after the speech. He had nothing else to do, and that girl (and her tits) was definitely worth it. He got out his baccy and rolled a cigarette, looking up at the stage with bored blue eyes, impatient. 

The absolute wanker who was speaking finally sat down, to minimal applause. Another guy got up and judging by the rustle that went through the crowd (Including Jamie’s girl, he noted with annoyance), this was the one they were waiting to see. Or was it? He started the speech and it was great, admittedly even Jamie found himself getting really roused and involved. He spoke of awe-inspiring ideas that Jamie had never even considered, of fairness, of the class system, of community and wealth and happiness. But the guy himself was really average. The words however, the words were amazing. The speech ended, to massive applause and the guy accepted his response bashfully. Jamie felt confused. His mind was elsewhere, thinking about socialism and politics, but to anchor himself in stuff that he knew and understood, aka tits, booze and the church, he looked back at that girl. She was looking around desperately with her friend and he attempted to read her lips. 

“I thought he was here tonight, that was his speech but where is he?”

“You know he never reads them, only writes them.”

“I wanted to see him.” 

So it was another guy’s speech. That made sense. The guy who read it wasn’t half as charismatic as the words. Jamie felt himself begin to wonder where this elusive person was too. He turned back to the bar and ordered another pint. Just as the bar man, who was giving him a suspicious haven’t-you-had-enough-son look handed him the glass, another figure approached to Jamie’s right, asking for a whisky and ice. Jamie glanced up from his pint and his confusion. 

The guy was older than him, about five years maybe? He was taller too, and handsome but not in the same boyish way as Jamie had been told he was (this was usually clarified with the words ‘too bad you’re a fucking prick/priest’). His hair was longish and ash brown, he was very slim with long slender fingers and he had intense eyes. Elegant. Practically fucking radiating charisma. Almost fucking beautiful. Maybe the beers were starting to take their toll.

“Nice speech” Said Jamie, sure this had to be the guy. 

“Fuck off.” He replied without looking up from his whiskey. 

“Oi! There’s no need to be fucking rude! I wasn’t being sarcastic.” The guy turned around and looked at him expectantly. And was a little taken aback. He didn’t really think that the person who managed to connect his face to his words would be a bizarrely attractive ruffian looking kid wearing all black with eyes like a sky and a believable earnestness. He softened, flattered.

“You liked it?” 

“Yeah I fucking liked it! I’d never thought about that shit before but now, fuck.” Jamie was smiling at him like he’d invented the TV and it was pretty fucking endearing. 

“What’s your name, eh?” 

“I’m Jamie, you?” 

“Malcolm.” Jamie grinned and lit his cigarette. The girl, who was pretty much completely gone from his mind by now and replaced by handsome young Marxists, made a reappearance, coming up to talk to Malcolm. Jamie watched as Malcolm retrieved a slim cigarette from his pocket and saw the girl reach for her lighter. Faster than the speed of light, his arm shot into the frame, lighter blazing. Malcolm gave him a strange, questioning look, but allowed him to light his cigarette. A small victory, but a victory nonetheless. The girl looked at him, irritated, then went back to waxing lyrical about Malcolm’s speech and his amazing literary references. She was trying hard to impress. Jamie’s original object of affections was now his rival, and he was in not by any means a good loser. 

Malcolm hated talking in front of crowds, hated being the centre of attention. He didn’t want to be the person everyone saw. It was much better to be in control from the back, to be the secret genius behind the facade. He was learning this now. He loved to write and currently had a job writing political pieces for the Glasgow Herald, but he liked to try out his speech writing skills at meetings, such as this one, on the weekends, just to keep sharp. Malcolm never gave the speeches, only wrote them. He had a huge amount of ambition and was currently in search of an appropriate direction to channel it all. 

The girl was droning on about his speech still. He didn’t mind so much, it was nice to be complimented, but to keep up this smile was pretty exhausting. He just wanted to ask her to fuck off. He much preferred honest, un-nuanced praise, like the type he had received from the small-ish but slightly scary lad to his side that was staring at him with so much intensity he may be attempting to microwave his brain with telekinesis. He kept interjecting totally useless (and worrying) things into Malcolm’s conversation like “I fought a Rottweiler once” and Malcolm was finding it very hard to concentrate and keep up pleasantries with the girl. She was beginning to feel awkward and was fiddling with something around her neck. A gold crucifix. Malcolm noticed and let out a little laugh.

“What?” She said, smiling, glad to hold his attention once more.

“You’re wearing a cross? Don’t tell me you’re religious?” 

“I am yes, good catholic girl.” Malcolm laughed again, apparently oblivious to a volcano that was starting to rumble next to him, his intense stare in danger of turning hateful. Malcolm made the worst decision ever and continued on, totally unaware that what he was saying was a complete betrayal. 

“Don’t tell me you believe in that shit? It’s all rubbish, opiate of the fucking masses. And the priests, don’t get me started. They’re fucking kiddy fiddlers!” 

A fist smashed into Malcolm’s face.

“What the fuck did you say, huh, prick?” Malcolm was incredibly confused, not because of the considerable punch to his jaw. The kid who had been staring at him like he was made of gold was now looking at him like he was Satan incarnate, for no apparent reason. He was so pissed off he was practically snarling, spitting too. Malcolm felt his anger rising too. Nobody punched him and got away with it. He rubbed his jaw and gave Jamie an evil glare that almost made him shrink away. Almost. 

“You heard me, cunt. ” And with that, they went at it. It was kind of a mess to watch, honestly, limbs flying everywhere. By no means a well choreographed brawl. Despite being a skinny bastard, Malcolm could actually hold his own, Jamie noted with a sick admiration as he kicked him in the leg. Malcolm was bleeding from the nose, and Jamie felt his eye swelling already. He aimed another punch at the smug pricks pretty face. There was a scuffle from the back, someone had decided to intervene and Jamie felt himself being dragged away by one of the pubs beefy patrons, bellowing “GET OUT AND NEVER COME BACK” as he was kicked onto the cold street. Of course they’d take that anti-Catholic commie bastards side over his. He was still boiling with fury, his shirt ripped, so he took out his anger on a brick wall, punching it with enthusiasm. He was half annoyed at the insult to his future profession, half annoyed that someone he had so admired for a split second could turn out to be such a 10-carat cunt. Sighing, Jamie rolled a fag, tried to calm down, and walked back to the seminary kicking a can. If he snuck in the back, they’d never know he’d been gone. At least he didn’t get blood on his collar again this time. 

The next day they were up early. Jamie had indeed managed to sneak in, unnoticed, but was finding it hard to hide his bruises and unpleasantly foggy hangover headache. His dishevelled appearance, despite blinding white collar, had earned him a telling off from the priests and he was put in charge of collecting rubbish in the dining hall after lunch. He was just undertaking the rather unpleasant task of scraping food off the wooden tables (seminary boys were not particularly neat eaters) when he heard the head father enter the hall. 

“This is where the boys take lunch.” He was showing somebody around and Jamie quickly shuffled out of the way. He didn’t want to become the tours main attraction, aka the archetypal rowdy boy whom the seminary was attempting to tame into a good catholic priest. He had his back turned to them, trying to seem as involved in clearing up the mess as possible, that is until he heard a somewhat familiar voice pop up, one that struck panic into his sometimes sinful soul. 

“I see. Do you reckon could I get a look at the classrooms?” Despite the echoing cry of ‘Noooooooo’ that was sounding in his head like an alarm, Jamie slowly craned his head around and his fears were truly realised. The person who was accompanying the father was indeed the very commie bastard he was fighting in that pub the night before. And he could see him, collar and all.


	2. Postcard choirboy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected second meeting and a strange, semi antagonistic friendship is formed. Maybe.

Malcolm almost laughed. He held back and twisted his mouth into a shark-like half smile instead, pretending to listen to what the priest was talking about as he stared at the completely inconspicuous character attempting to exit the hall as subtly as his ungraceful body would allow. Malcolm was quite vehemently anti-religion, especially Catholicism and wouldn’t normally been caught dead in the place, despite it mostly holding mini-priests instead of fully indoctrinated real ones. He had only accepted the job of writing a piece on the seminary and their recent publicity drive because of the fight he had gotten into the night before.

Malcolm actually felt a bit sore about the pub incident. It was unusual. He was perfecting the skill of not regretting anything he did and he felt no qualms about the views he had expressed or the fight. Fights were a risk he took. He was naturally aggressive and normally relied on the passivity of others to ensure that physical violence did not take place, but sometimes people do surprise you and he enjoyed fighting on a therapeutic level. Start shit, get hit, or so the saying went and Malcolm was a big believer in his right to self-expression even if it may earn him a couple of enemies along the way. Normally he would just think ‘well fuck them’ and move on. But he had actually kind of liked that kid a bit. Also, the little fuck had given him a bloody nose and ruined one of his favourite shirts. Malcolm had accepted the rather shit assignment from the Herald as penance for the kid. Looks like karma had just paid him off. 

He had assumed the all black attire that the lad was wearing that night had been because of some nihilistic fashion statement. The truth was far, far more amusing. A little trainee priest with a face like a fucking postcard choirboy who smoked like a chimney, drank like a fish and started fights with dogs and Marxists. A sweet seminary boy, with blue eyes and a blinding white collar that was cleaning up rubbish like a saint. It was frankly hilarious. No wonder he had been so pissed off about the catholic jibes. Malcolm made a mental note to be more perceptive of his audience next time. He often spoke out of turn, but that was usually around wimpy journalists and pathetic local politicians, he should have had more sense than to push the buttons of a wee potential psychopath in a cassock. 

Jamie, that was his name wasn’t it, was now scurrying out the back door. Malcolm endured the rest of the tour and thanked the guide, voice and exaggerated smile heavy with irony. He left the seminary out the back, onto a green and reached into his pocket to grab a cigarette. Searching his body for a lighter, he remembered that he had lost it and usually relied on some sort of minion for that purpose. 

“Fuck sake” He said out loud to the seemingly empty green. Out of nowhere a resigned and deep sigh emerged, sounding like it’s owner had just lost a bet with himself. From behind a wall, where Malcolm assumed he had been rather creepily watching him, the Father Jamie in training stepped out bashfully, sleeves rolled up and rollie cigarette shoved in his mouth. His eye was looking pretty bad, Malcolm noticed with pride, but that only served to make his appearance more appealingly roguish. The little bastard. He seemed reluctant to talk to him but proceeded to remove the cigarette from his mouth and extend his arm towards Malcolm.

“You can light off this.” 

“Ta” Malcolm took it, lightly brushing fingers with Jamie in the process, and held it up to the end of his cigarette, successfully lighting the fucker. He passed it back and exhaled, and to Jamie he seemed fierce. There was silence for a few minutes as they both stared across the empty green. Malcolm spoke first.“You’re a fucking priest?” 

“Yeah, what of it? Don’t be a cunt, eh, or I’ll fucking nut you again.”

“Don’t get in a lair, you little fucking sociopath” Malcolm looked at him and smiled, eyes crinkling. A rare smile, genuine. Jamie felt some weird kind of warmth and surmised he was getting fever of the chest area. “I just think it’s funny. No wonder you were so fucking angry. You almost tore my nose off.”

“Aye, if I hadn’t been interrupted I fucking would have. Your balls too.”

“So you’re not denying I’ve got some?”

“Maybe. Tiny ones. You did make my eye look like shit.”

“Sorry bout that, have you lost your place as Miss June in the annual papal pedo calendar?”

“Fuck you.” They were both smiling now. Jamie nudged Malcolm playfully on the shoulder, which seemed to be a silent apology for punching him in the face so unexpectedly. Malcolm nudged back, which could be interpreted as an acceptance. Suddenly Jamie grabbed Malcolm’s arm in a totally unexpected and unsolicited moment of personal boundary invasion that prickled the entire area like a burn. He turned it over, checking Malcolm’s watch. 

“Fuuuuuuck, I’m late. They’re gonna barbecue my dick for Sunday lunch if I miss another of these…” He glanced at Malcolm, eyes searing into his soul like a brand on cattle. He couldn't think of anything to say so decided to side with familiar aggression. “Fuck off back home, you socialist prick.” Malcolm did that half smile again and retorted that he had wanted to leave for hours but that ‘wankstain’ of a father hadn’t let him. Cool as anything and with an elegance Jamie only hoped to posses and seemingly no regard for Jamie whatsoever, he began to amble away, hands in pockets, light eyes already focused on some new project on the horizon. He didn’t even say goodbye. Jamie watched him for a minute, forgetting he was late, feeling oddly unsatisfied. He called out. “Don’t show your ugly face round here again yeah?” 

Which meant exactly the opposite.

Malcolm still carried on walking without turning around but did manage to raise his middle figure in Jamie’s direction. At least that was something.


	3. Strongly worded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm works, Jamie writes.

“Jamie, Jamie! That paper you were waiting for!” Trust wee Stephen to go find it for him, although Jamie had not been particularly subtle about expressing his desire to see the finished article Malcolm had been writing. He didn’t mention the reasons why (mostly a growing preoccupation with the author that bothered him when he tried to sleep at night and couldn’t get his fucking smile out of his head), instead forcing his little group of seminary boys to listen to countless rants about ‘Journalist cunts’ and threats of danger if the article was in any way incendiary. He hadn’t seen Malcolm at all since that other day and was trying to distract himself from thinking about him too much, taking late night bike rides to youth clubs to chat to the girls standing outside, but the priests, who had now set up some kind of patrol for his great escapes, usually caught him before anything truly diverting happened. Jamie put his jumper back on and jogged over to him, picking up his satchel on the way. He removed his essentials, a rolling tin, and tossed it at Stephen.

“Hey, roll me one right?” Jamie grabbed the paper and threw himself violently onto the grass to impatiently thumb through it. Local new, local news, local news, boring shit…aha! The article was there, squeezed into the edge of a later page. He digested it voraciously, pausing only to accept Stephen’s hastily rolled cigarette (for a non smoker, he was getting very good at it. Jamie may keep him as a mate after all) and light it. He made a pained face. No wonder the article had been stuffed away near the back. It was almost as biased and strong as Jamie had feared (hoped?). Viciously damning the way in which the seminary taught, the way in which the church was disseminating its taxes, pretty much shitting on the whole practise of Catholicism in general. “That skinny jumped up little bastard,” whistled Jamie, under his breath. He felt ablaze with both fury and excitement. He immediately jumped up from the ground, shocking poor Stephen in the process.

“What did it say, Jamie” His devoted companion questioned, fear in his eyes. 

“That Marxist cunt has really done it. I’m going to fucking…” Stephen visibly gulped. Jamie’s threats were never empty. He terrified most of the boys into awed appreciation. 

“What are y’gonna do?” His voice wavered, something that Jamie would have exploited fully if he was not already concentrated on something more pressing. Stephen had genuine cause for worry; Jamie’s attacks usually involved limbs, blood or arson. And trouble. A lot of trouble. 

“Gonna fucking… write a strongly worded letter.” He grabbed up his bag and the paper, cigarette shoved obstinately in his determined mouth, and started a high-speed walk back to his dormitory, leaving Stephen in a state of absolute gaping confusion. 

Malcolm received an absolute bollocking from the boss. He was meant to have greatly edited the piece before it went out but had somehow completely ignored him and had it printed in it’s original form anyway. Malcolm took the rinsing with complete grace, emotionless and cold, even sarcastic, which of course enraged the boss even more. He didn’t like the young mans haughty attitude; in fact, he was vaguely scared of him and his predatory eyes but couldn’t bring himself to fire him. Malcolm had a hold on people and managed to make himself seem completely indispensable. He gave him a severe warning and Malcolm, the little cocky prick, smiled at him with a serpents grin. 

A week after the article had been published, Malcolm trudged home to his shared flat after work. It was a mess, completely run down, his flatmates often holding uproarious parties. He opened the door and leapt up the stairs with boundless energy that seemed to come from nowhere, hastily removing his tie and brown suit jacket, unbuttoning his top button impatiently. He hated wearing suits, so stifling. He flung his effects to the side, too resigned to bother replacing them in his room and walked to the kitchen, where one of his flatmates Jessica, a beautiful drama student with long dark hair with whom he had enjoyed a brief and meaningless (in his eyes) romantic entanglement, was enjoying a cigarette in an ivory lace dressing gown. 

“Malcolm, hello! How was work?” She stubbed it out and smiled, dark eyes glistening. 

“Hey darling, you alright? Looking very nice today, Jess, very nice. “ She lit up, adjusting her robe as Malcolm purposefully appraised her with his pale eyes, scanning down and resting on her chest before dragging them back to her face. “Yeah it was pretty fuck-tastic, thanks for asking. Dave not in?” Malcolm was on the charm offensive and he knew that it worked. Honestly, he wasn’t that interested in Jessica but he felt a certain power in maintaining her interest in him. He wanted to be sure that, if he wanted her to, she’d drop her new fling Dave for him in a second. It was just a reassuring, if not quite cruel, satisfaction.

“Oh he’s in bed waiting. Want a cigarette?” Malcolm looked at her, big eyes innocent as a bush baby. 

“Wouldn’t want to keep you away from bed, eh?”

“No no, it’s fine. He can wait.” An evil smile spread across his face as he accepted it, fingertips kissing hers. He had won, and he didn’t even need to shout at anyone. Malcolm was attempting to perfect all his facets of persuasion, and charm was a method that he found particularly effective, especially with women (and the odd man). Jessica was staring at him with hungry eyes, devouring his stories of the news desk, laughing eagerly at his jokes. Dave was momentarily forgotten, the poor old sod.

Growing tired of chatting to Jessica, Malcolm scooped up his things in the hall and went to his room. He could hear the sound of Dave getting out of bed and urging Jessica to return back and join him, amused at his exasperation and the muffled mutters of ‘who were you talking to? Seemed to be fucking enjoying it’ He disrobed, neatly putting away his suit and getting into an old Arran knit jumper, very baggy on his skinny frame and jeans with a hole in a knee. He sat at his little desk in the corner and started dissecting the national newspapers he had brought that day, also switching on the radio to catch up with news, keeping notes in his journal. It was best to keep on top of this stuff, to be completely in the know about everything. Malcolm wanted to be the man who knew it all, who no one could belittle or challenge. The news and radio helped, but he needed more. He needed secrets. 

After an hour of Malcolm’s nightly ‘homework’, a knock resounded on his door. Kev, another of Malcolm’s flatmates, was an art student who spent most of his time dabbling with experimental drugs and attempting to get Malcolm to join him (sometimes succeeding, if Malcolm wasn’t too busy) and he had a habit of bothering Malcolm at inopportune moments. Despite often finding him irritating, Malcolm managed to uphold a reasonably good relationship with the other man, mostly due to his unwavering admiration for him (Kev thought Malcolm was the most ‘hard-core’ guy he’s ever met, especially after witnessing him on those rare nights of excess where he became so gregarious/charming/incandescent/crazy he practically glowed) and his links to the young Marxist groups where Malcolm liked to practise his speechwriting. 

“Come out tonight, Malc! It will be a laugh…”

“About as big a laugh as a fucking baby in a blender Kev, I’ve got work tomorrow.”

“Lisa will be out?”

“Who the fuck is that?”

“You shagged her a couple weeks back! Fucking hell Malcolm…blonde, tall, kind of long nose…”

“Oh that one. No fucking thanks mate, not if that crazy bitch is on the prowl.”

“She was alright!”

Malcolm shrugged. She had been all right, he supposed. But needy and wanting him to give more than he was bothered when the night was through. Like almost every girl he met. The chase had been fun though, while it lasted. But Malcolm hated sharing a bed and certainly didn’t feel like doing it that night. Kev finally relented and left him alone with his newspapers once more and Malcolm leaned back in his chair, ideas milling around in his head.

The next day at the office, Malcolm had a surprise note on his desk. It was from Frank, who worked on the rather dull section of the paper that pertained to reader’s letters. It was usually full of mad old people, complaining about some useless shite. The note read ‘Malcolm- got this letter in today especially about you. Think this fucker is insane. Mind if we print it?’ Malcolm looked at the paper attached to the note dubiously. It was lined, like it was torn directly from a school pad. There were stains on it from some unknown liquid that Malcolm didn’t particularly want to consider. He had difficulty attempting to decipher it at first because the handwriting was atrocious, thick, dark and scruffy like fat spiders legs doing a drunken tap dance, but he managed eventually to read it, shit writing and all. After a quick scan he knew immediately who the author was. It was, quite shockingly, well written- an aggressive rebuttal against his previous article that had some solid points within it. It also included a lot of not-so-printable vocabulary and a threat to find him, scalp him and use said scalp as the seminary pot-scrubber. Malcolm snorted. It was a weak threat, more of joke than anything. Or flirting. Although he fought it Malcolm couldn’t help but feel impressed, which is just, behind the smokescreen of belligerence and righteous violence, what he supposed the mini-priest had wanted. To impress him. Weird, weird kid. 

He returned the letter to Frank and told him not to print, the last thing Malcolm wanted was to draw attention or gain notoriety in the local papers. It didn’t exactly fit into his grand scheme. 

He thought about the warm hand on his arm looking at his watch and blue eyes, wondering if he could afford this kind of distraction. 

Malcolm told Frank he would deal with the little shit himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finished almost all of the fanfics around so out of desperation felt compelled to add a chapter, sorry there is little interaction between main characters as of late it is an attempt to build ~context~~~, once again i am sure that this is filled with anachronisms and inaccuracy. Plus I have no idea how newspapers work!


End file.
